


Urdle 43: Special Delivery

by thatoldbroad



Series: Urdle 43 [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Biblical Reinterpretation, Crack, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-14 22:30:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16049873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatoldbroad/pseuds/thatoldbroad
Summary: Vignettes or VODs (Videos On Demand).1) etal requested Urdle as Joseph coatless, being sold into slavery by his wicked, naughty brothers (and she provided a photo for inspiration!)2) isitandwonder requested Urdle as Spike from Notting Hill, eating cereal while wearing Will's wetsuit





	1. Joseph

**Author's Note:**

  * For [etal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etal/gifts), [isitandwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For etal.
> 
> And [here is the photo](https://etal-later.tumblr.com/post/178310396337/ehheheh-sooooo-i-got-my-custom-porn-request-filled#notes) that inspired the fic (also with a lovely rec, thank you etal).
> 
> Also, Joseph is 17 in this fic.

I am ordered to lie on the stone table in the middle of the room like an animal that's being sent to its slaughter. The idea gives me small comfort. A quick death I would welcome over the various other nefarious things I feared these men planned to do with me. I still did not know. Not since I had been stolen from sleep by my brothers when at first I thought they were behaving no worse than usual. Not even when they tore the beautiful multi-colored coat that father had given me off my body on that night that had been so dreadfully cold. Not then did I guess. How could I, an innocent? 

**

They dragged me that way, coatless and bare but for the loincloth tied around my hips, my arms bound behind me. At first I screamed, but quickly they gagged me and my only recourse then was to dig my heels into the ground and be more trouble to them than was worth their efforts. I prayed that someone would see, that someone would intervene. But my brothers were sly. Father was away and no one came to my aid, no one was so loyal, not unless their lord himself were there to bark such orders.

They threw me into an empty cistern. A not insignificant fall and I skinned my palms and knees as I braced for it, but those have been the least of my injuries. There they kept me for several nights with no more than a little bread and a bucket of water to sustain me. And when, finally, they came to retrieve me, I was delirious and weak from hunger and so parched I would have welcomed the thinnest stream of water wrung from a dirty rag. Still, I kicked at them. Resistance was futile, of course. I was no match, not even at my best, and never have been. In size and strength they beat me easily and when I tried to drag my heels some more, Judah - the largest of my brothers - hoisted me over his shoulder like a maiden child and carried me the rest of the way. I thought my humiliation complete then, but it had only just begun.

It wasn't until they presented me before a caravan of spice merchants and flung my loincloth aside to expose me to their eyes did I realize what my brothers intended. To these merchants they spoke in a foreign tongue, in the language of rough men, and surprise momentarily distracted me. But of course my brothers would be fluent. They were not honorable men, and in speech and mannerism they commanded the negotiations aggressively. Not a word did I understand, but I knew well the clinking sound of coins in a pouch tied around a merchant's waist. And the rude gesture by the merchant who held a single piece of silver up to my brother's face, the glint of the sun bouncing off it. They were bargaining for my sale - as if I were another sack of resinous bark! Or worse, for then Judah grabbed my genitals - my own brother! - and lifted them for inspection. 

Desperately, I wished I had never told my brothers about those prophetic dreams. I did not actually believe them, that I would ever be positioned to rule over my brothers or be more than father's golden child as they perceived me to be, and intended only to fling back the slightest bit of revenge for all of their abuse. How foolish of me. I had sealed my own fate.

At the approach of the first merchant at my brother's urging, I shrank away, but that only encouraged a laugh from both of them. My brother handed me off, as if I were a piece of meat. The merchant prodded and pinched and squeezed, not at all hurried, and I stood there with my cheeks burning, mortified and still in disbelief. It didn't matter that he was clinical about it. That he touched me similarly as the village healer, who had been the only person ever to touch me _there_ other than myself. And the village healer had never been so thorough. 

The others followed suit, at least twenty of them. Not a single one was less scrutinizing or exacting than the first, and by the end of their procession I was in tears and trembling like a newborn foal. 

But even then the worst I feared was that these men intended to have me for a meal. Possibly that a man's genitals may be considered a delicacy, though I did not know that cannibals could be so discriminating. It was the man who had his turn at me last that planted in my mind a consequence far worse than I had imagined, an all together different evil. A notion that I had not and could not have conceived having had no experience in it.

He spat on me. I was shocked by the gesture and thought he meant it as an insult for I had shriveled up like an infant. But then he clamped his hand down over the gob he’d made and _rubbed_ it into my flesh. I seized up on my toes. What was this feeling! Is this what father had warned about? That a man meant for sanctity as he believed me to be should not be made impure by temptations of the flesh?

But as quickly as it began it ended. I sobbed in relief when the merchant released me. Stunned, I stared at my member which had swelled in size.

“Twenty shekels of silver,” the merchant said in the dialect of my village so that even I understood. “No more.”

My brother extended his hand. “Deal,” he said, and they shook.

**

I do as I’m told and climb onto the stone slab, the sting from a slap to my face from an earlier disobedience still fresh and stinging. The table is cold against my naked back. I have been left with nothing to hide behind, not my loincloth, which they had ripped forcefully away, and not my hands, which I must fight to keep at my sides. The impulse to cover is insistent, but I force myself to resist. I cannot surrender this position that I now know so well, that has been beaten into me. The recent slap was a mere warning that next time they will not be so charitable.

My mind wanders on that threat. Which would be worse? An endless beating? Or something more sadistic - a slow torture by those sharp knives that hung from the guards' belts? Strips of my skin peeled back or a finger dismembered, as I had been warned might happen if I wandered on my own or too far when I was a child? Or to be violated beyond what the merchant had only hinted at? 

A violent shiver overwhelms me. Terror has been a constant, but at times was dull, almost dormant, and when again it makes itself known, it shakes me to my core. I feel hot and cold from it - ice in my veins, but feverish in my chest where the air feels tight. Wildly, I consider doing something reckless, something manic to bring about their most violent punishment. A thrashing so vicious that it must, has to kill me. But even as I lie there and pray for death, I cannot make myself act on it. I _am_ a coward. Soft and spineless. My brothers were right.

I do not know how much time passes as I lie there still as a corpse while my mind spins in an endless loop, jumping ceaselessly from one thought to another, anguished by possibilities or wallowing in self-pity. An eternity it seems. And again I am reliving that incident, how that merchant had touched me, the _wrongness_ of it, when the door opens.

The man who enters towers at least a head above the guards, both of whom easily dwarf me. Strength is evident in the bulk of his arms and legs, and he commands the room as if the entirety of it belonged to him. Clearly, this is someone accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. He catches me staring and I look away before he takes it for insolence, but not quickly enough to miss the amused curl of his lips. 

As he approaches, I am careful to keep my eyes trained on the ceiling, but I feel the heat of his scrutiny, how his eyes travel the length of my body from head to feet. The slow assessment nearly breaks my composure. "Very pretty," he says finally, and my face heats from the comment. "I'm told that you're an innocent. Is that true?" But before I can answer he seizes my member.

At first I think he means only to inspect me - or I hoped he would. But then he _presses_ in a manner that leaves no question in my mind of exactly where this is headed, and it's confirmed seconds later by the flex of his fingers, the way he _molds_ me in his palm, how he makes a sheath from his hand to encase me and - _oh_.

Oh, and that feeling returns. But worse, so much worse because this man is practiced. He handles me like he's done this a hundred times and soon I am panting and hot. I can do no more than lie there and take it, clinging to the sides of the table as if that might prevent this strange sensation of soaring. Impossibly from that place alone pleasure spreads, rippling goosebumps on my arms and sending a tingle up my spine. I should hate it. I should push him off, risk his anger and whatever abuse or torture that might provoke, but. It feels so, so good. And I am helpless to it.

My head thrashes to the side and I squeeze my eyes shut. "Ahhhh," I cry out, jerking uncontrollably. Then I am wet, so wet, soppy and sticky. I continue to shake. My teeth chatter. The cold has returned to possess me entirely and sobers me. Immediately, I sink into despair. What have I done?

The man caresses my face. I flinch, and I am too distressed to care about it. I can smell myself on his hand.

"You will please the pharaoh," he says. He gestures to a guard, who hurriedly brings a chair to him. He sits close to my hips. His hand returns to that messy space between my thighs, but goes lower. And nudges . . . My eyes widen. "But you and I - we're not done.”

_

 

"The voiceover works," Armie says, managing to clear his throat finally after the fifth attempt. Too bad he can't "clear" his very fucking hard dick just as easily. Acting as Timmy's sounding board during editing always left him with the worst case of blue balls.

"I don't know why I didn't just do that the first time."

"Because you didn't know that that's what he wanted." _He_ is Sunday School Teacher, and belonged to the exclusive and (not) distinguished pool of former customers that Timmy had failed to satisfy. Morons obviously, the lot of them.

His complaint manifested in weeks of disgruntled and borderline abusive emails, which collectively boiled down to a single accusation: you didn't follow directions. But he gave none, so it was like requiring Timmy to figure out a riddle in a fortune cookie without actually telling him it needed figuring out or something as equally perplexing.

"I guess he intended his email to be the script not just, like, a really elaborate order description. I should've known, or I should've at least asked him." But Timmy had been new to the gig, so the _obvious_ wasn't. And perfectionist that he is, he's decided to remake each of his "mistakes" even if they're ultimately shelved for just personal use. Their Library of _Congress_ \- snicker, slap, squeeze. Or The Wank Bank - that one always made Timmy's eyes roll. Or, Armie's favorite - Encyclopedia Errrotica: Volume Sexxxy. Though when he was feeling insecure or hungry, because he tended to be grouchy and petulant on an empty stomach, or was just being dumb, he referred to it silently as Blackmail Material.

"I would never!" Timmy had protested the one time Armie had joked about it, hurt apparent on his face. Of course he wouldn't, and Armie had been an ass for even suggesting it, but he is an ass sometimes. And - it's fine. Timmy loves him.

"So you never did get to part two? Or is it three?"

Timmy shakes his head. "He canceled the payment." He wrinkles his nose. "I got charged a fee."

"Asshole," Armie says, rubbing smooth Timmy's adorable nose. "Well, what say you - " He pulls Timmy to his feet and in very Judah-like fashion slings him over a shoulder. And in very Joseph-like fashion, Timmy resists. But feebly. "About rehearsing?"

Pre-production - it's their favorite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> etal - I hope you didn't mind the first person POV and that I deviated a little (or a lot!) from the original. You know, artistic license. (Also, this sweater reminded me of Joseph's multi-colored coat: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uT8QSz2tkGI. Very timely of Mr. Chalamet to wear it.)
> 
> Next, for isitandwonder - Urdle as Spike from Notting Hill, wearing a wet suit while eating cereal.


	2. Spike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For isitandwonder.

Bella had asked Will when Spike first moved in, "So what's he like?" 

Will, who likes to choose his words carefully or tries to, thought about it for all of five seconds before answering, "Like Pig Pen."

"He's like a pig pen?"

"No, Pig Pen from the Peanuts." Which amounts fairly to the same thing, he supposes. 

Spike has a layer of _ick_. Like he might be infested by bed bugs or poison ivy or chlamydia, or all of the above all at once at any given moment. His personal hygiene is questionable. (Although there is absolutely no question sometimes after he hasn't bathed for days and Will swears he can smell him from two blocks over.) And he's always _touching_ things or putting things in his mouth. Why? 

He scratches his balls. Which tended to not at all allay Will's suspicion that there are tiny, microscopic things crawling there. Every other minute it seems he has his hand in his pants - when he's wearing pants. Otherwise. Well. Some days it's like Will has been stranded on an island, the lone survivor of a plane crash, and its sole inhabitant is this native blond who has never been introduced to the concept of clothing. Not a scrap of it. Not even of the banana-leaf variety.

And so Will is perpetually on guard. He is constantly navigating around the sneeze or finger poke that he's sure is his gateway to catching whatever Spike has, including his bad habits. He's taken to insulating and not just by maintaining a respectable distance between them each time they interact. He diligently rewashes _everything_ that Spike uses, gives it a long, hot soak in boiling water and a good, thorough scrubbing that, if the thing were alive and breathing, it would be red and blistered from it. He is constantly spraying disinfectant. And washing his hands or rubbing anti-bacterial goop into them. He has to. The man has no boundaries. None. And this morning is no exception. 

Spike is wearing a wetsuit. Will's wetsuit, that he dug out from the cupboard, from a box shoved way, way in the back under a pile of clothing, a suitcase storing a plastic Christmas Tree, and three boxes of outdated travel books. Eating cereal.

It's not the first time that Spike has "borrowed" something of his, or the second time. Or the third. It's such a common occurrence at this point that Will has grown used to it. They just go in the wash after, or the bin. After all, who was thinking about wearing that blue shirt again to the pub for a drink last month to celebrate Max's pay increase? Not Will.

But the wetsuit? He can't remember how he got his own grime scrubbed off the thing, it's been that long. Dry clean? Maybe. Probably. Or some special wetsuit cleaning service. He might just have to burn it.

"Did you bother to shower first?" Will asks.

Spike gets a puzzled look. "Why?" He scoops up another spoonful of Coco Puffs and jams it in his mouth. It hangs open while he chews and the soggy mix of cereal, milk, and Spike's molars are displayed gleefully for Wills's view.

He's repulsive. Utterly and completely disgusting, and the very last thing that Will should feel is _aroused_. Except he is. There's a bit of a tingle down there. A mild (and growing) interest. He doesn't want to say _at his cock_. That would be too complete an admission and preferably he'd like to divorce himself from it, by word and physically. If only the thing were detachable. 

But, fine, yes. Cock. His cock wants Spike. That ass, specifically, where the wetsuit clings most suggestively. _Nice firm buttocks,_ Spike liked to mumble sometimes at his reflection in the mirror. Yes, yes it is.

Oh, dear.

Must be the rubber.

"I want to eat your ass," flies out of Will's mouth before he's even aware that it had been a kernel of an idea that was brewing in his head. Memo to Will: thoughts turn into words. _Why_ had been thinking that? 

“Really?" Spike says. His eyes sparkle. As if Will had just announced that he won the lottery, or like this is normal, routine conversation, which for Spike - maybe. Probably. He sets down his bowl of cereal. In seconds, his long, wiry limbs are unpeeled from the wetsuit and down he drags it just past his hips. He sprawls belly down onto the kitchen table. “Is this good?”

Will’s mouth goes dry. No, it isn’t. It’s awful. The stuff of his nightmares (wet dreams). But he steps closer, compelled by a wicked, baffling, nauseating fascination. And his cock. Will’s cock is definitely in the driver’s seat. 

Spike’s hole is red and puffy. “Why’s it look like that?” Will asks, all manners and propriety forgotten in this Twilight Zone bizarro-world he’s entered.

“Like what?” 

“Bruised.”

“Oh, that. It’s nothing. I like a little anal fingering in the morning. Usually after I’ve had my first cup of tea.” Using Will’s mug. Dirty, filthy hands wrapped around his mug. Will is horrified, especially by his cock which grows fatter in reaction. Traitor! “So, will you get on with it?” Spike wiggles his ass to punctuate it and it’s a ridiculous sight. But Will doesn’t need to be asked twice. Unfortunately.

He sinks to his knees. Reason flashes for an instant. A thought: it’s not too late to back down. Step away. Slam that foot on the brake pedal. But then Spike’s hole _winks_.

Dear god. And Mary, Jesus, and Joseph.

And Will is messy. He has never thought of himself that way, but how else would one describe how voraciously he goes at it? He doesn’t just lick. He _licks_ , like a kid set loose in Willy Wonka’s lollipop factory. He goes deep and _searching_. Because those noises. Those utterly obscene, pornographic noises go straight to his cock and he's rewarded each time he discovers an especially susceptible spot. Or when Will pries the cheeks apart, that gets Spike ridiculously excited. Fucking exhibitionist. Will wiggles his tongue inside, then joins a finger, and it’s a jab-and-swish combo. Spike keens. It’s hurt-sounding, like a coyote whose leg has been pinched by a trap. And, god, is it a fucking turn on. Soon, his chin is soaked. Saliva and slobber drip from it and from the inside of Spike’s thighs, which glisten and _shake_.

On three fingers crammed knuckle-deep, Spike screams. Come splatters to the floor. But the party’s not over. On a tongue-stroke, he wiggles back, so Will does it again, again and again until he’s sobbing. And even then he begs for more. Because of course he likes it past the point of bearable. 

“Now, then - ” Will stands. Immediately, he penetrates Spike. All in in one go. Balls flush up against that pert bottom.

It’s quick. A shade brutal. He has no control left. Not in how he moves - erratically. Or the frequency of his thrusts - rapid and rabbit-like. He _has_ to have it. Hot, sweet, and fucking perfect. And not even the temptation of that velvet-like friction persuades him to slow down. He can’t. He’ll die if he does.

“Fuckity-fuck-fuck!” Will wails like a banshee, finally, and thumps his chest.

But the afterglow is short. The despair sudden. Oh, no. 

No no no no no no no.

But then Spike turns and bares his tummy. And his cock. Pink and pretty and hard again. Will’s mouth waters and down he goes, back on his knees.

_

 

“Remind me again - what did Nutting Hill not like about it?” Armie mumbles. His face is smashed up against Timmy’s thigh from the last blow job and he’s still trying to catch his breath. “Was it the bow-chicka-wow-wow music?”

“No, he asked for _that_. He said he didn’t like the way the camera was angled when Ansel was fucking me. He wanted a point-of-view shot from his scrotum, like this - ” Timmy demonstrates by raising a hand and tilting it diagonally. 

“That’s why you cut in the middle of filming.”

“Yes, you grouch.”

“I was in the zone!”

“Is that your new nickname for my ass?”

“The Zone. Sweet T. Beautiful Butt. Take your pick.”

“They’re all terrible.”

“Then I give up.”

“Me, too.” Timmy nudges a toe against Armie's shoulder. “Shower time.”

“Nooooo, I like you dirty.”

“I stink.”

“But I like your stink.”

“It’s _your_ stink, you animal. You shot your load on my chest.” 

“Did I? Well, I like my stink on your stink. And, oh yeah, baby, I love it when you talk money-shot to me. Besides - ” Armie rises to his feet and bends toward a spunk-covered nipple. _Licks_. “I can clean you up.”

Timmy shivers. “Do that again,” he says in his Spike-voice and purposely terrible English accent.

Post-filming: also a favorite.


End file.
